


The Baker's Apprentice

by volleydorkscentral



Series: Just a Taste - [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Just a Taste side story, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 06:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20093131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volleydorkscentral/pseuds/volleydorkscentral
Summary: One afternoon Lev accidentally set Yaku on fire in the kitchen. This is the story of how Lev makes his amends and how Yaku came to forgive him.





	The Baker's Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place immediately after 'the fire incident' in JaT. (ಠ ͜ʖಠ)

Yaku wondered what he was going to do for dinner as he walked home from _je sais pas_. Even overnight, it was boiling hot in the city and after the heat of the kitchen and the labor intensity of cleaning he was sweat-soaked and wanting nothing in the world except a long, cool shower. He was contemplating where he was going to eat—it was only a twenty minute walk from the restaurant to his apartment but that was a direct route. It’d take longer to get food but he was _really_ hungry. Plus, sitting for a while to eat would be good; his feet hurt, his back hurt, his head hurt, his hands hurt...but these things always hurt… so that was nothing new. Just another _thing_ of working in the culinary industry. Plus, there was a storm coming, he could smell it in the air and see it in the swollen clouds that rumbled overhead, flickering with delicate arcs of lightning that jumped from cloud to cloud.

“H-hey!” a familiar voice called—to him, presumably, but he didn’t stop… just in case. Midnight, NYC, random people talking to you? Best to keep moving—_just in case_.

The voice called out again: “Chef, please!”

Yaku stopped this time, turning and watching Lev rushing across the crosswalk and over to him, stopping right in front and panting a little. He must have run a few blocks. “Yes?” They hadn’t properly spoken since the _incident _that afternoon—only Yaku barking out orders and Lev saying _yes, chef, right away, chef, of course, chef_ and bumbling away to follow instructions.

“I—” Lev started, then stopped, looking away. His hands rubbed nervously along his jeans and he wouldn’t meet Yaku’s eye. He was staring at the ground as if he was about to throw himself down and prostrate himself before Yaku; which Yaku wouldn’t hate—but the sidewalk was disastrously dirty. “I just wanted to… apologize again. For—well, you know. I don’t”—he took a sharp breath, closing his eyes as if in pain; his next words coming out in a long rush without him pausing for breath—“I don’t know what happened. I mean I do know what happened, obviously. The valve, the button—thing. It was just an accident. I’d never used that kind of torch before and I wasn’t sure how full it was and it was a complicated thing of trying to hold the light down and press the—well, you know how to use it. And, and I was just really nervous ‘cause you were expecting so much of me and I—I’m just so sorry. I just wanted to tell you that and beg your forgiveness before I tell Chef that he should start looking for someone else to help you.”

Yaku blinked at him, studying him as he spoke. He could see how hurt the young pastry chef was and just how guilty he felt for the accident earlier today. While it was an _incident_ … it was also just an _accident. _Yaku had lived through worse. Lev sucked down another breath, looking across the street as he watched a woman in a long white trench coat hurry down the sidewalk talking into her phone _of course I’m coming, just stall them_! His eyes followed her, but he wasn’t seeing her—his eyes looked far away and a little glossy, as if he were keeping tears in them by sheer force of will; his lips pressed tight together until he sucked the lower one between his teeth and bit down. Yaku recognized the face of someone barely holding it together. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly—and even that made the tall man visibly flinch, as if Yaku might reach out and strike him. “Are you hungry?” he asked instead.

Lev’s eyes darted to him, widening with surprise. “Am I what?”

“Hungry.” He had to resist the urge to yell at him or roll his eyes. “Of course you are,” he said when Lev simply stared at him. “Last time we ate was right before service, yeah? I’m hungry, too. Come on, my treat.” He turned and began to walk, but only took a few steps before he realized that Lev wasn’t following him. He glanced over his shoulder. “Hurry up. We don’t want to get caught in the rain.” To punctuate this a peal of thunder rolled across the sky, seeming to squeeze between the buildings as it floated down to them.

Lev snapped to attention and took three long strides to catch up—damn his long legs! “Wait, I just wanted to—”

“I know. I’m not done talking to you, but I’m also starving.”

“Oh.”

“So let’s go get something to eat. I know a place.”

* * *

_The place_ was one of Yaku’s regular dives, a small, half-lit Italian place tucked into the barely there space between two large buildings. It was open twenty-four hours, had maybe six workers in total, and if you didn’t know where to look—halfway down the alley, down the stairs, the green door not the red one—you’d never find it on your own. When they walked in the man at the counter on the opposite side of the room nodded at them and Yaku flashed two fingers before the man disappeared into the back, ducking under a large Italian flag (that, honestly, had probably seen some shit—it was very old and tattered) that hung like a shower curtain, the only thing separating the kitchen from the dining room.

Yaku walked to the only table that had any light near it, a single hanging bulb with a fat fly buzzing around it, and stuck himself in the chair tucked into the corner. Lev sat opposite him, eyes darting around the restaurant. Yaku didn’t blame him, though it wasn’t much to look at. Faux brick walls. Gaudy Italian decorations. One booth (currently occupied by a heavy set, gray haired man smoking a cigarette and counting out cash onto the table, not seeming to care that there were customers), and only about five small round tables clustered in the dining room. There was a fish tank gurgling in the corner, glowing white and blue, but Yaku had never seen any fish in it. A soda fountain against the wall near the booth, but four of the options had white tape across them in large X’s.

“Uhm,” Lev murmured, hands fidgeting under the table.

Before he could say anything else however, the man from the counter was back and dropping off two shots of vodka each, a large cup of water (no ice), and two bottles of Menabrea Italian beers with the top still on. “Your usual?” the man asked, nodding to Yaku.

“Thanks, Jimmie,” Yaku replied, nodding. The two of them looked at Lev, who blinked like a deer in headlights at them.

Jimmie said, grimy toothpick flicking from the corner of his mouth as he spoke, “What’cha want?” His voice was sharp, the old-school Italian accent he always laid on was thick with hooked consonants and bouncing vowels. Yaku didn’t know if he _was_ Italian, spoke Italian, faked the accent, had a _bad_ accent, a speech impediment, or just learned it from fake Italian movies like _The Godfather_ or the guidos over in Jersey and simply tried to emulate them in a lilting, sideways pronunciation of the words.

Lev glanced around at the table—finding no menu to speak of. He opened his mouth and looked like a lost puppy and after a moment Jimmie said with a jerk of his chin, “Yo, we got anything you want, long as it’s Italian. Italain’s Italian. Don’t’cha know good food?” And when Lev only stared at him Jimmie shook his head and hooked his thumb at Lev. “Who’s you bringing’ in here?” he asked Yaku with a derisive squint.

Yaku smiled at him, amused. “It’s cool, Jimmie.”

Jimmie sniffed, flicking the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He gave Lev another scrutinizing look, one eye half closed. “I got you. Be back. Don’t move.” He turned and stomped off back to his register. He called back into the curtain, “Yo! Sophia, that lil’ baker’s back and he got some _minchione_ with him.”

A tiny woman stuck her head out from the curtain, fluffy silver hair and glasses that took over her entire face and made her eyes owlish. “Hah?!”

Jimmie pointed to their table and Sophia squinted over to them, nodded brusquely, then snapped something in Italian to the man at the booth. The man looked up, gave her a rude hand gesture and yelled back at her. They began snapping and snarling back and forth in Italian and multiplying hand gestures that got bigger and wilder—Lev, Yaku, and Jimmie following this debacle with their eyes like they were watching a tennis match—until Sophia shot him such a rude gesture that Yaku didn’t have to know the language to know she was telling him _go to hell, you old bag!_ and ducked back into the kitchen before yanking the flag curtain closed.

Yaku chuckled, pushing the shot of liquor over to Lev before raising his own. “Drink.”

“I don’t drink vodka…” Lev said half-heartedly, staring down at the liquid.

Yaku squinted at him. “What sort of Russian doesn’t drink vodka?”

Lev let out a dramatic sigh. “My _dad’s_ Russian. I’m barely…” But he shook his head, cutting off the thought. “I don’t drink vodka.”

So Yaku took his shot and downed them both in quick succession—burning hot in his throat, warm on his empty belly. “Suit yourself.” Then he took a pocket knife out and flicked open his bottle. “Beer? It’s a good Italian brew.”

Lev shrugged, noncommittal, so Yaku popped the top of the other and slid it to him. “Drink. This or your water. Both.” He sat back in his chair, sipping his drink (crisp taste of hops, fruity undertones) and watching Lev. He could tell by the set of his shoulders and the tenseness of his arms that he was clenching his fists under the table. “You’re not Russian?” he asked, hoping the line of questioning would get him a little more comfortable before Yaku set in on the real question of the night.

Lev gave a half shrug, watching the fly bopping around the lightbulb. His eyes were a glittering, clear shade of green even amongst all the darkness around him. “… Only by blood, I guess. My dad immigrated here for a job. Met my mom. She’s a born and bred New Yorker. Classic love story, blah blah. I’m sure my dad wishes I was more Russianate—only son of the family and all. But my sister speaks the language pretty well. She took classes over at NYU. Conversational and Russian lit. I’m hopeless with it; couldn’t grasp the alphabet. My mom says it’s because they didn’t try when I was little; my dad just thinks I’m stupid.” He was stroking the condensation on the bottle, painting little stripes in the droplets.

“You’re not stupid,” Yaku told him, sincerely. “You graduated college pretty high in your class, didn’t you?”

“Only average.”

“Average is, by definition, _not stupid_.”

Lev shrugged again—and Yaku smiled when he saw that it was a distinctly Russian shrug (Yaku had spent a lot of time in Little Russia last year helping with a wedding and an ornery bride), probably learned from his father. First one shoulder, then the other, dropping them both in a fatalistic, _such is life_, fashion. “Still. Not very smart. We used to go to Moscow in the summer when I was a kid, my sister, dad, and me, to visit my grandparents. I remember they all spoke Russian—even my sister—and I was excluded most of the time. I was too little to fully know English, much less Russian. All I remember now are the colorful buildings…”

Yaku flapped his bottle towards him. “They say the best way to learn a language is immersion. Just go back. In three months you’ll be a natural. That’s what Kuroo did—not a word of French when he left; chattering like he was born with it when he came back.” He didn't mention that Kuroo had lived in Paris for nine years. Nine years...three months...close enough.

“Really? I didn’t know you knew him before the restaurant.”

Yaku nodded, taking another sip. “Yup. We went to high school together over on the West side. You didn’t know? I thought everyone there knew—Kenma, too. We were all at this fancy prep school together.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lev’s eyes were a little bigger, impressed. “That’s cool. You must have been great friends for him to hire you later?”

“Ha.” Yaku snorted, shaking his head. “Not so much. We were friends, yeah, sure, in a way. But we butted heads more often than not. We were total opposites back then… but we both loved cooking so.” He took another drink, hoping to get it all down before it warmed. “And when he called me a few months ago I was considering opening my own place… but I couldn’t get the loan. I was pretty mad about it. But Kuroo, he’s a good guy, said I could basically do whatever I wanted. That sounded to me like I could have my own place but not have to worry about all the bills. Seemed like it was too good to be true, but I was going to leave my old job working with—”

Suddenly Lev gasped, sitting up and almost knocking the empty shot glasses off the edge of the table when he nudged it. “Ron Ben-Israel!”

Yaku blinked, confused at how Lev knew that. He had worked with the famous confectioner for three years, helping design elegant and unique wedding cakes for sophisticated, high-class patrons. But after three years he wasn’t sure he wanted to _do_ wedding cakes anymore and was trying to buy a local storefront where he could make and sell his own pastries, cakes, desserts, and various other creative confections… but the bank had turned him down. Credit was a bitch. The very same day he’d been rejected he had gotten a call from his old high school friend; fate, it seemed, hadn’t hated him after all. “Yes…” he said warily, “but how do you—”

“Oh!” Lev gasped, realizing that he must have sounded like a rabid fanboy or a stalker upon uttering the name of one of the best and most influential pastry chefs in the industry. “Sorry, I just”—blushing, grinning like an embarrassed idiot—“well, I designed my final project in CUA on the cake you and Ron made for the Prins wedding. I saw it in a magazine and was inspired.”

Yaku stared at him, disbelieving. The Prins—van der Prins—were an old _old_ Dutch family, the upper echelon of the term _rich_. The family made their gallery-esque home in a four floor penthouse mansion in the Upper East Side, and had designed a multi-million dollar rooftop wedding at the most expensive hotel for their only daughter, sparing absolutely no expense. The team at RBI Cakes had been instructed to hold nothing back, even going so far as to use real diamonds that had been supplied. It had been massive: five feet tall, eleven layers, hand piped lacing, four hundred flowers all made and painted by hand (Yaku himself spending two weeks doing nothing but making roses—roses—_roses—_not to mention the myriad of other flowers the rest of the team worked on), and so much frosting that Yaku had been tasting confectionary sugar in the back of his throat for _weeks_ afterwards. “Wait,” he asked, stunned, “you replicated that cake?” He said it like _fucking bullshit you did_.

Lev burst out laughing, throwing himself back in the chair. He laughed so loud that Sophia poked her head out from the sheet to frown at them and the old man in the corner turned to glare. Jimmie didn’t even look up from his phone. “No! God no. I _based it_ on that cake.” He dug out his phone from his pocket and flipped through the screens, then showed Yaku a photo of a cake that—yes, Yaku was extremely impressed with. “I used fondant instead of buttercream, and foam rounds instead of cake since it was a display piece.”

Yaku took the phone from him to see it better. It was lovely. The piping was delicate and detailed, criss-crossing underneath bursts of colorful gum paste and sugar flowers—the unfurling beauty of red roses, bunched up tightness of blue hydrangeas, long and graceful orchids, purple, pink, and magenta, and a single orange chrysanthemum, the petals so tight and close together Yaku wasn’t even sure he could do that. He’d used sugar pearls and molded isomalt diamonds that glittered in the light of the display case it was in. “You made this?” Yaku asked, incredulous, pinching his fingers to zoom in on the picture to see the details better.

Lev nodded, looking sheepish and suddenly self-deprecating. “Yeah. It took, like, a month, though. I got a good grade.”

“I fucking _hope_ you did!” Yaku almost shouted. He saw Jimmie coming with their plates and passed Lev his phone back.

“Enjoy,” Jimmie said, his tone suspicious as he looked over Lev—as if Lev was inherently going to dislike the food and Jimmie was ready to stab him in the eye. He only stayed a moment after dropping off their steaming plates before he turned away and parked himself at the register again, exactly the position he was when they entered the restaurant, scrolling through his phone with his chin in his hand.

Yaku couldn’t help but smile at the look on Lev’s face, half desperate longing, half shock, as he looked at his steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Yaku had had those before and Lev was in for a treat. It was delicious, the meatballs seared and then cooked low and slow in homemade tomato sauce, covered and smothered in too much cheese and accompanied with what Yaku _thought_ was homemade pasta. That was why Yaku came here to this shitty, run-down, desolate place: the food was fucking fantastic. He had the bolognese ragu: thick strands of _tagliatelle_ pasta and the most decadent meat and wine sauce he’d ever had anywhere—hands down—period. He could taste the hours that went into making it.

“Look,” Yaku said as Lev stabbed at a meatball and shoved it into his mouth, only to cry out and fan his palm in front of his face at the boiling temperature. Yaku waited until this crisis was through—Lev chewing frantically, chugging water, then panting like a dog when it was over—before speaking again, “Look, I get it. I never went to school but I remember the early days of working in a bake shop. It’s tough shit. You’re brand new, don’t know what you’re doing, everything’s different than it was in school, yeah?” He twirled noodles around his fork and pointed it at Lev when he nodded sadly. “You went to school to get a _foundation. _You’ve got that knowledge, even if you don’t always remember it off the top of your head. It's _there_. Build off of it, use that knowledge as a springboard. You’ve got the chops for this job. If you can make _that_”—he jabbed his fork at Lev’s phone, indicating the wedding cake project—“you can make pastries at the restaurant. Sure, you’re a baby now, brand new, don’t know how to work on a line, clumsy as all hell. But,” he took his bite—still steaming, but he was fucking hungry, and after swallowing continued, “you’re also _smart_, capable, creative, and able to think on your feet. You’re decisive when you need to be and, when it comes down to it, you haven’t fucked up anything that couldn’t be fixed with ten minutes and a piping bag or a new batch. You’ve never fucked up when it mattered—you’ve always had my back during service, which you came in knowing nothing about, so”—he pointed is fork at Lev again, threatening this time—“stop this bullshit talk about fucking leaving. You aren’t leaving, so don’t let me hear another word about it.” He punctuated this by taking another huge twirl of noodles and sauce into his mouth, nodding succinctly, his point made.

Lev was staring at him, mouth open, forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth. He lowered it, looking at Yaku with wide, uncertain eyes. “You… you’re not mad?”

“Of course I’m mad,” Yaku snapped. “You set me on _fire_! But I’m not going to hold it against you. I want you to come in tomorrow and work your _ass off_ to make it up to me. Show me the Lev who made that wedding cake. Show me the Lev who was passionate enough that a single picture inspired you to spend hours and hours making flowers and piping like that. Stop being so scared of disappointing me or Kuroo or yourself. You’re good at what you do when you set your mind to it.”

Blinking, turning his head and dashing away a tear with the back of his hand, Lev said softly, “I don’t know if I can do that. My dad used to say—”

“Fuck—your—dad. I don’t give a shit what he said or what he did or what he wanted from you. You chose this career path for a reason.”

Lev was quiet for a long moment, picking up his fork again and fiddling with it, halfheartedly spearing a meatball. “It was you.”

Now it was Yaku’s turn to stare, baffled. “Excuse me?”

“You came to our school once with some other baker. I don’t remember her name—she was the speaker. Talking about cookies and her shop and stuff, how to make stuff that sells. It was for a sales class, not a baking class, but that’s what she got famous for was cookies. But you were there _baking_ the cookies she was talking about. You didn’t even say anything, but I couldn’t stop watching you. Me, first year, having to sit in the back ‘cause I was so tall, too nervous to come up to you afterwards and tell you that because of the cookies you made—the way you made them really, perfectly, not looking at a recipe, totally focused—is what made me decide to switch from savory to pastry.”

Yaku shook his head. “You’re shitting me. I don’t believe you.”

Sheepish smile, ducking his head to hide it, Lev turned his phone around on the table and scrolled upside down, knowing exactly what he was looking for, and tapped on a picture to bring it up full screen. Sure enough, it was Yaku, in the cream colored coat with the name of the bakery embroidered in fancy Copperplate lettering, eye level with the counter to measure out the weight of the ingredients using the old-fashioned balance scale; leaning over a giant mixing bowl as it whirred and turned dough; scooping out meticulously exact portions of it when it was through; watching them bake, his own reflection visible in the door to the oven; and then transferring the partially cooled giant cookies to a sheet tray. Yaku thought he looked angry the whole time—he probably had been, forced to go to that place and make _cookies_. He’d thought he was above that, at the time. He knew better now, of course. He loved making cookies when he could these days.

“You inspired me,” Lev said, looking at one of the pictures for too long. “I wasn’t good at the savory stuff, even worse with the purchasing and nutrition and sales, and I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at the baking… but, I don’t know, watching you, it made me want to be able to do it too.” Suddenly he laughed, a bark of a laugh, loud and surprising. “That’s why I tripped!”

Yaku grinned at that, the memory of his first meeting with his new apprentice. Lev had just been hired, just finished the paperwork, and Kuroo had brought him into the pastry shop to introduce them. Upon entering and seeing Yaku, Lev had promptly tripped over his own two feet, barely managing to catch himself on the edge of the counter before uprighting himself and trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“I was so shocked that it was you!” Lev said, laughing. “The one guy that I’d looked up to and followed his career and—boom—suddenly, there you are! Right in front of me! It was like I was meeting Jesus.”

Yaku felt his face flushing a bright pink and pressed a hand to his eyes to hide it. “Lev, no. Oh my god, stop.”

“No, no! It was amazing! I was so happy—_I_ get to work with Yaku Morisuke!? You had been featured in magazines! Youngest pastry chef with all these awards and accolades. You’d worked with all these famous people and _now I get to work with you_?! I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t even speak to you I was so nervous.”

“You didn’t say a goddamn word. I remember.” Yaku grinned, shaking his head. Lev had stood in a stupefied, stunned silence their entire introduction, Kuroo explaining that he was just out of school, had high marks, and was eager to learn. Yaku had welcomed him, told him the business, and asked when he’d be coming in. They had stood there looking at each other (Yaku covered finger to wrist in chocolate as he rolled dark chocolate truffles) until Kuroo had seemed to sense that Lev was rendered mute and answered Yaku’s questions about the young new pastry chef.

“To be honest, I couldn’t figure you out. Kuroo said you’d done well in school, and I knew he wouldn’t hire an imbecile, but you acted—well, let’s be honest—pretty dumb those first few days. Even the choux dough and filling you made that first day wasn’t very impressive.”

“I was still in shock. Couldn’t remember anything or seem to get my hands to work right.” Lev was smiling down at his hands, spread on the table in front of him, as if they were very small detached creatures not of his body.

“You got over it quick, though. Thank God, I was going to have a talk with Kuroo if you didn’t pull yourself together.”

“Sorry,” Lev mumbled, sighing and closing his fingers into fists. “Do you really think I can do okay?”

Yaku took a bite, chewing slowly while he contemplated the young pastry chef. “I think, if you buckle down and stop doubting yourself, you can do more than okay.”

Lev’s smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “No one’s ever… said anything like that to me before.” He paused, glancing up towards the lightbulb as the fly buzzed loudly. “Well, my sister always tells me she thinks I’m the best. But she’s my sister, she’s always been like that.”

“She sounds like a good sister to have.”

His smile became even more pronounced. “She really is.”

After this, they ate in a companionable silence, each lost to their own thoughts. Yaku could _see_ Lev thinking over their conversation, working the words back and forth like he was kneading dough, processing. He didn’t want to interrupt and simply thought back on all the people that had supported him in his career: his parents, first of all, and Kuroo (even though they’d been rivals), the little elderly man at the old-time deli where Yaku had first learned to make bread, then his mentors at the bakery where he’d worked when Lev had seen him; and, finally, Ron Ben-Israel, who taught him all about candies and confections, elegance and grace, and cakes. So many cakes. These teachings, these people, he held near and dear to his heart, and he wondered if he could do the same for Lev—be a mentor, a teacher, an inspiration like those people had been to Yaku. He liked the idea, and was suddenly determined to help Lev find his place in the bake shop—and to stop feeling like he wasn’t good enough.

When the plates were clear Yaku went to the register and paid for their meal, made sure to tip Jimmie well, called _good-bye!_ to Sophia through the curtain, and nodded to the man at the booth as they left (Sophia’s husband, presumably. Yaku had never heard him speak a word of English). Outside they stood under the tiny white awning and peered up towards the street, both of them frozen with sudden indecision. Rain fell in fat, quarter-sized drops all around them. The nearest subway was several blocks away, and neither one of them was likely to get a cab in this weather.

“Well,” Yaku said.

Lev shrugged, holding a hand out to the air, palm up to catch the droplets. “It was hot anyways; the rain will be good to cool off in.”

Yaku grimaced up at him. “You’re _not_ very Russian, are you? I used to know a lot of Russians, back when—well, never mind that. This one guy I knew, Illiya, that’s all he did: complain, complain, complain. He used to say that even if your life was great, perfect, everything ‘on the up-and-up,’ it didn’t matter, you had to complain. Never talk about the good stuff, because you don’t want to tempt the Devil.”

Lev laughed, leaning against the concrete wall. “My dad used to say something similar. My mom thought that was just a way to ruin a good day.”

“Well, she wasn’t wrong.” They smiled at each other then gazed out at the pouring rain.

“Tomorrow,” Yaku said into the silence that followed, “will be better. We’ll start working on some cool stuff, ok?”

“Really?”

“Really. Go home now, I want to see you bright and early.”

Lev grinned at him and waved as he raced away, ebullient and joyous, even taking a moment to splash in a puddle at the mouth of the alley before he turned the corner.

* * *

It took only a week or so for Yaku to begin to think that he might _like_ this new hard working, gaining confidence Lev. As the kids on the playground said: _like, like_. It started with a sensation of pleasure whenever Lev did something that impressed him—which could be chalked up to pure pride, but Yaku thought it was more than that. Then, every now and then, he’d see Lev doing something—wrapping parchment into a paper cone for piping, expertly shaping danishes or pretzels or whatever else they were working on that day, and Yaku would think, _oh, what nice hands_.

He would sit next to Lev at lunch and talk to him about anything he could think of—the both of them peppering the other with questions about their lives, Yaku’s career, Lev’s schooling, and endless, random topics from facts pulled out of thin air and double checked on their phones. They talked about Yaku’s family—still meandering about in West Village, owners of a tiny antique shop that sold Important Americanas, silver and baroque, antique furnitures such as Chippendales, Duncan Phyfe, Pabst, and Brooks. Each piece could sell for thousands of dollars, so even though their shop was small it was relatively profitable. Yaku regaled Lev—and sometimes Suga, if he stayed late enough for lunch—about his time working under one of the master pastry chefs, and all he’d learned, about his mistakes, and his triumphs.

Lev told him about his family—father disappointed in him for choosing this profession, they didn’t speak much; mother overly proud, always asking Lev to make her something or bring her samples of his work (to which Yaku allowed Lev to take him some of the pastries they were working on to take to her); his sister, living over in Brooklyn above a tattoo parlor her girlfriend owned and operated, who Lev would have long, meandering phone calls with once a week if he never managed to make it over there to see her, or she up to the Bronx to see him. His grandparents had lived in Russia, raising his father until he was twenty two and moved to America for a corporate job; then, about ten years ago, Lev’s grandfather had passed away and the family had convinced his grandmother to move in with them so Lev had been able to spend his formative years with her before she’d passed away just last year. When he spoke of her it was carefully, always looking at the table or far away into the distance, his voice catching just a bit and dropping into heavy emotion. He didn’t speak of her often, but when he did it was with only praise and love. “She taught me how to make her piroshki,” he’d said one day in the bake shop while they worked dough, sounding both sad and honored.

Yaku had reached over to lay a hand over his, the zip and tingle of their skin touching was a wild, new thing, but a thing that Yaku liked and wanted to replicate. “You can show me someday.”

Beaming, overly excited: “Really?”

“Absolutely,” Yaku told him, squeezing his hand. “Keep her close to you that way, yeah? Plus, you could teach me something.”

And at night, after service, after cleaning, they would walk together after work. Well, walk all of five minutes to the subway that Lev would catch and take towards home. Yaku would walk him there and, if they were early, they would sit on the bench just above the station and talk about the day, the service, whatever they could think of, until Lev would hurry down to catch the train. One night they were discussing deeply the merits of the Marvel vs DC and which they thought was better—a heated discussion, since neither thought of backing down from their point of view—when suddenly Lev took out his phone to look up a reference and shrieked in what Yaku thought was terror.

“What?” he asked, leaning over to see—was someone hurt?

“Dammit!” Lev said, standing and leaning over the rail to see down the subway stairs. “I missed my train!”

“Oh…” Yaku stood too, hands in the pockets of his jeans so he didn’t reach out and touch Lev’s arm. Outside the kitchen, his impulses were harder to control and sometimes, a voice in his head told him, he shouldn't try to control them at all. “Well, maybe we can get some food and then call you an Über or something?”

Lev sighed, looking distressed but forlorn, nothing he could do about it now. “Sure. That sounds good. I wanted to get home soon as possible ‘cause I was hungry. Guess this works too.” He shrugged, smiling at Yaku, pocketing his phone and turning on his heel to look around. “Where do you want to go?”

“There’s a sushi bar down the street.”

They were able to walk there, it wasn’t far, especially so late at night (early morning, really, almost two) when most of the traffic was drunks and slow moving taxis. When they got there they found the restaurant crowded, packed with tourists on some overnight trip? teenagers looking for a meal? Either way, most of the tables were full but they managed to squeeze in at the bar where they could watch the chefs make the sushi. They were sitting very close, legs almost touching, elbows periodically brushing, and—once—when Lev turned to catch the attention of a girl walking past who he’d seen drop tip money, Lev’s hand on the back of Yaku’s chair, his long fingers practically _touching_ Yaku’s neck, which tingled and sent shivers over him.

It took most of the meal for Yaku to work up his courage, but once he did he reached a hand out and touched Lev’s hand under the pretence of showing him how to hold the chopsticks—an obvious lie, since Lev knew very well how to use them, had been using them the whole time. Yaku marveled at how Lev’s fingers felt on his own—the long bones of his fingers, strong from working with his hands all day; their skin shared the same texture after a night of cleaning: dry, almost flaking skin, scratchy, fingers rubbed raw from cleaning chemicals. Yaku had a lotion that he used to remedy this, and said so, hoping that the light was low enough in the restaurant that his blush wasn’t too obvious.

“Lotion? What kind?” Lev asked, pulling out his phone and opening his Amazon app. “I’ve always had a problem with dry skin—especially ‘cause of all the dishes we do and the hot water. And how dry we have to keep the pastry shop. Cold, too.”

Yaku wanted to smack him. He _wanted_ Lev to say: _oh? Lotion? Do you have any on you? No, well, why don’t we go to your place so you can show me?_ Or—something! Yaku hadn’t _flirted_ with anyone in years, and he thought he was horrible at it, given how little reception he was getting. “I don’t remember the name.” It wasn’t strictly a lie; he _didn’t_ remember the name, but he could see the little green and yellow label clear as day on his bathroom counter. He could probably find it if he looked hard enough.

“Oh, damn.” Lev deflated a little, disappointed. “Well, could you look and tell me tomorrow?”

Yaku took a moment to press his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying not to scream. Was he _that bad at this_? All night he’d been hinting that he wanted to spend more time together…

‘_I’ve got this great wine you should try.’_

_‘Oh? Maybe I’ve had it. My sister drinks a lot of wine!’ loud, rambunctious laugh_

_‘Have you seen that new show?’ _

_‘Which one?’ _

_—Any show! come on, Morisuke, think!—‘The one—I forget the name—with the cowboys and the robots?’_

_‘Westworld! No, not yet, I don’t have HBO.’_

_‘I do, want to watch it sometime?’_

_‘Oh, sure, but I’ll have to save up a bit. HBO’s expensive.’_

And so on. Yaku was at the end of his proverbial rope, unsure of where to go from here. “You know”—he said, trying to put a _tone_ to his voice; sultry? sexy? alluring? Something. Although at this point he was worried it was just annoyance—“I’ve got it at home, and I don’t live too far from here.”

Lev considered this, poking a pink piece of fish into his mouth. “Sure, if you want to. I don’t mind.”

_Finally! _“Great.” Yaku tried to make his voice a calm, easy tone. “It’s maybe a ten minute cab ride, if we can find one. Or we can call an Über and have it here by the time we’re done eating.”

“I can get one,” Lev said, tapping away on the his phone.

Yaku took a steadying breath and finished the last piece—he’d offered it to Lev first, to be courteous—then paid their bill and by the time they were situated into the backseat of a car, Yaku’s heart was fluttering in his chest so hard he could feel it all the way to his fingertips. Yaku sat in the middle to be closer and with Lev and his too long limbs tucked up like some lounging insect it was all too easy to simply shift his weight with the motion of the car and let his leg or arm lean into Lev’s. He didn’t seem to mind, or even really notice, except to smile over at Yaku periodically when he pulled his gaze away from the passing city lights. Once even Yaku _swore_ he leaned back.

The car let them out right in front of his building and Yaku led him through the marble floored, green walled lobby, waving to the night doorman—an elderly, freckled man with a perpetual smile and, rumor had it, a proclivity towards alcohol—as they passed.

The elevator was smooth and silent, gliding up the building so fast Yaku felt his stomach flip… or maybe it was because Lev also stood very close to him, as if they were leaning over a formula that Yaku or Suga had written out. Yaku could almost feel the heat of his body against his skin, and he had to keep swallowing the bundle of nerves that rose up in him. He hated feeling like a teenager again—blushing, stuttering over his words, heart tumbling and cascading in his chest, palms sweaty. _Nervous_.

At his apartment door he tried not to fumble the keys as he unlocked the door and ushered Lev in behind him, dictating him to remove his shoes and stick them in the little cubby Yaku had set up beside the door. He didn’t want the hardwood scuffed, especially by the slip-proof shoes they both wore for the kitchen.

He liked his apartment. It was a small but cozy little studio—supple hardwood, cream colored walls, a corner of floor to ceiling windows. He liked it mostly because there was only a couch and an armchair near the window, leaving little room for entertaining guests or hosting parties, which was his excuse whenever anyone asked to come over for any length of time. He directed Lev to the couch in what his realtor had called _The Great Room_, and when Lev had sat he made his way to the little cubby of a bathroom tucked into a tiny hallway on the right. He snatched up the lotion and padded back on socked feet to the main room.

He saw Lev looking at his apartment and took a moment to glance around at it, too, seeing it as Lev might have. He could have cleaned better, probably. But usually he was so tired… the myriad of books piled around the big bookshelf looked kind of messy, stacked like the buildings of NYC, but like a scholar too engrossed in study to find time to properly organize. They were fiction, mostly; but also plenty of biographies from famous culinary figures and tennis players he’d liked over the years; several large coffee table books about furniture he’d been meaning to take to his mother. He could see blankets poking out of the bookshelf (also full to bursting with books and knick-knacks—awards and ribbons and photos and memorabilia from school and the other kitchens he’d worked at) that would unfold and reveal his bed, which he didn’t usually fold up, anyway. The only reason it was tucked away right now was because he’d pushed it out of the way that morning in a rush because he’d been looking for his debit card that he’d lost (found, later, in his locker at the restaurant).

“Sorry about the mess,” he muttered, motioning to the gargantuan sized pile of comic books spilling over into uneven piles, having fallen over because of the slick clear plastic sleeves he kept them in.

Lev was grinning as he looked at them. “What all do you have?”

“What all do I not have?” Yaku remarked, laughing. “You can look through them later if you want. I’ve got a lot of the old Detective Comics, but otherwise it’s mostly just Marvel.” He shrugged, not as embarrassed as he would have been since he knew Lev liked comics—although… he didn’t know if Lev _collected_ comics… and suddenly blushed, wondering if he’d just made a fool of himself.

But, no. Lev was leaning around him to peer at the stacks. “Oooh!” He was enraptured. “That’s awesome! When you say old…?”

“I think the oldest one I have is from the fifties? I’d like to go further back but I don’t like to use online markets.”

“No kidding?”

Yaku smiled at him, shrugging. “What can I say? It’s just more fun to spend hours poking around dusty rooms. Here, give me your hand.” This is what he’d been wanting to do—taking Lev’s proffered hand and dipping his own fingers into the thick cream of the lotion and smearing it onto his palm. He didn’t allow Lev to take his hand back yet, and instead rubbed the cream into his palm, each of his knuckles, the spaces of his fingers. Lev’s smile was sheepish as he watched Yaku’s fingers working.

“That feels good,” he said, his voice going soft, leaning forward as Yaku motioned for his other hand. He was so tall that even sitting and Yaku standing their faces were at nearly the same level so they were _close_ close, Lev nearly had his head on Yaku’s shoulder. This close, Yaku could smell the leftover scent of the pastry shop on him: cinnamon and cooking sugar, yeast and flour. Could see the pure, iridescent green of Lev’s eyes like never ending summer grass. He was watching Yaku with his big, round eyes—trusting, eager, curious. Lev’s hand twitched and Yaku glanced down at their hands. “Your hands are soft now, too.” Lev smiled, spreading his fingers wide. “Clever, not wasting any.”

“Yeah…” Yaku muttered, sarcastic, still stroking his fingers over Lev’s palm. “That’s why I did it.”

One thin eyebrow raised and Lev cocked his head to the side. “You didn’t?”

Yaku sighed, closing his fingers around Lev’s hand. No longer _friendly massage_ between co-workers. “I’ve”—he stopped himself, sighing. He’d always been a blunt person, even when he thought his face was going to melt off it was so hot. “Lev, have you even… _noticed_ that I’ve been trying to flirt with you for… weeks?”

Blinking, Lev raised his face a little, but didn’t pull away. “Really?”

“Yes!” Pausing, trying not to be annoyed. “Yes, I have. I… I was very impressed with you back at _Da Nonna. _And every day since then.”

“…I’m sorry I’m dumb…”

Yaku felt his mouth tug into a smile. “You’re not dumb, Lev. You’re just… focused. On your job.” He sank down onto the coffee table, relinquishing Lev’s hand and dropping his own into his lap. “I’m sorry. Forgive me, this is inappropriate.”

“Wait.” Lev reached forward and grabbed his hand, too tight, fumbling. “No, it’s not.”

“It _really_ is. I’m your boss. One of them, anyway.”

“Right now you’re not; you’re my friend.” Lev shrugged, turning his hand over to touch his finger to Yaku’s. He was still leaning forward, consciously or not. “My sister always said that I was immune to stuff like that… she said it was because I was too”—he had to take a moment to think of the word he was looking for—“oblivious to the world around me. But, it’s not that.” Tracing the bone of Yaku’s finger, his eyes following the motion. “It’s that I don’t think I’m worth it, so I don’t think anyone would do that.”

Yaku rolled his eyes, but Lev wasn’t paying attention to see it. “Now you’re being stupid. I was flirting with you. I wanted to. Because I like you.”

Lev was quiet for a time, and when he looked up to catch Yaku’s eye they both seemed to realize just how close they’d become—even more than earlier. Lev’s eyes flicked down and back up, and he pressed the tip of his tongue to his lip. “I— …”

“Lev,” Yaku whispered, “do you think it would be inappropriate for me to ask to kiss you?”

“I think I’d like that.” Lev smiled, perking up a little.

They watched each other—Yaku’s pulse loud in his ears, his mouth suddenly dry, his hand where Lev touched him tingling, pins and needles. With his free hand he slipped his fingers around the back of Lev’s head, sliding gently into his hair. Lev tucked his face down, smiling, and bit at his lip until Yaku raised his face and inclined his head.

Lev tasted of vinegar and pickled ginger, the mackerel from the sushi they’d eaten. He moved closer, Yaku having to tilt his head back, but it allowed him to trace his tongue across Lev’s lip, being rewarded with a shiver down Lev’s spine that Yaku could feel in his fingers.

“Too much?” Yaku asked, not moving away enough to really say the words aloud so they came out just a mumble.

Lev touched his forehead to Yaku’s. “No, no. I just… the last person I kissed was a long time ago.”

“Oh yeah?”

“First month of school… guy that quit two weeks later. Never saw him again.”

“That sucks,” Yaku said. “Well, I can’t run off on you like that. And I’ve told you you can’t leave—so guess we’re going to be stuck together.”

Lev smiled back, turning his head so their heads rubbed together, like a puppy—or a cat, marking its scent. “Is that bad, though? Since we work together?”

“I don’t plan on coddling you, so no. We’ll just… kiss outside of work.”

“And inside of it?”

Yaku laughed a little, nudging their heads together with a gentle bump. “We’ll work together and make delicious desserts.”

“Oh,” Lev said softly, as if he was stunned. “Yeah, okay. I like that idea.” He tilted his chin so that Yaku kissed him again, this time less hesitant on both of their parts. Lev reached up and slipped his arm around Yaku’s shoulders, pulling him over—and Yaku nearly toppled off the coffee table.

“Shit! Sorry,” Yaku said, abruptly standing so he didn’t fall flat on his face. “Sorry, I—”

“My fault!” Lev held his hands up, frantic. He leaned back, scrubbing his hands over his face.

Yaku watched him—the sudden slump to his shoulders and the little groan he let out. He glanced out the windows, then at the clock on his wall beside the couch. “It’s late—early. You should go home, go to bed. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”

Lev looked up, nodding, then took out his phone. “I’ll call an Über. It shouldn’t take too long to get here.”

Sitting beside him, Yaku allowed his leg to press against Lev’s and when he was done with his phone, reached out and took Lev’s hand. “What… do you want to do until it gets here?”

Lev turned to look down at him, the smile on his face was pleased and a little bit timid, shy. “You’re the boss, Yaku.”

Yaku laughed, shaking his head. “I think if we’re going to keep kissing—”

“More than kissing?” Lev interrupted, his cheeks a bright pink.

“Let’s try a few dates and see where it goes, okay? But still, outside of work you should call me Morisuke.”

Lev squeezed his hand, testing out the word: “Mori…suke. It’s strange. But I like it. I still can’t believe I’m sitting here with you. You’re like a celebrity.”

“Stop!” Yaku laughed, sitting forward, turning to face him. “I am not. And, besides, we’re working _together_ now.”

“Not right now,” Lev pointed out.

“No,” Yaku agreed, shifting so he could reach up and touch Lev’s cheek. “We’re not. So, what did I say we do when we’re not working?”

Lev grinned a big, puppy smile. “Kissing, Mori.”

“Don’t call me that.”

But the way Lev said it, tender and careful, made Yaku smile. He didn’t _hate_ it. Lev knew it, too, because the way he smiled and nodded, and the way he kissed him made it feel like he was going to keep calling him that.


End file.
